Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Now that Sardar Patel is dead, no one can control Panditji,’ remarked one young but very conservative MLA.

‘Even before Patel died who would Nehru listen to?’ said L.N. Agarwal dismissively. ‘Except, of course, his great Muslim friend — Maulana Azad.’

He clutched his arc of grey hair, then turned to his personal assistant. ‘Get me the Custodian on the phone.’

‘Custodian — of Enemy Property, Sir?’ asked the PA.

Very calmly and slowly and looking him full in the face, the Home Minister said to his rather scatterbrained PA: ‘There is no war on. Use what intelligence God has given you. I would like to talk to the Custodian of Evacuee Property. I will talk to him in fifteen minutes.’

After a while he continued: ‘Look at our situation today. We beg America for food, we have to buy whatever we can get from China and Russia, there’s virtual famine in our neighbouring state. Last year landless labourers were selling themselves for five rupees each. And instead of giving the farmers and the traders a free hand so that they can produce more and store things better and distribute them efficiently, Delhi forces us to impose price controls and government godowns and rationing and every populist and unthought-out measure possible. It isn’t just their hearts that are soft, it is their brains as well.’

‘Panditji means well,’ said someone.

‘Means well — means well—’ sighed L.N. Agarwal. ‘He meant well when he gave away Pakistan. He meant well when he gave away half of Kashmir. If it hadn’t been for Patel, we wouldn’t even have the country that we do. Jawaharlal Nehru has built up his entire career by meaning well. Gandhiji loved him because he meant well. And the poor, stupid people love him because he means well. God save us from people who mean well. And these well-meaning letters he writes every month to the Chief Ministers. Why does he bother to write them? The Chief Ministers are not delighted to read them.’ He shook his head, and continued: ‘Do you know what they contain? Long homilies about Korea and the dismissal of General MacArthur. What is General MacArthur to us? — yet so noble and sensitive is our Prime Minister that he considers all the ills of the world to be his own. He means well about Nepal and Egypt and God knows what else, and expects us to mean well too. He doesn’t have the least idea of administration but he talks about the kind of food committees we should set up. Nor does he understand our society and our scriptures, yet he wants to overturn our family life and our family morals through his wonderful Hindu Code Bill. . ’

L.N. Agarwal would have gone on with his own homily for quite a while if his PA had not said, ‘Sir, the Custodian is on the line.’

‘All right then,’ said L.N. Agarwal, with a slight wave of his hand, which the others knew was a signal to withdraw. ‘I’ll see you all in the canteen.’

Left alone, the Home Minister talked for ten minutes to the Custodian of Evacuee Property. The discussion was precise and cold. For another few minutes the Home Minister sat at his desk, wondering if he had left any aspect of the matter ambiguous or vulnerable. He came to the conclusion that he had not.

He then got up, and walked rather wearily to the Assembly canteen. In the old days his wife used to send him a tiffin-carrier containing his simple food prepared exactly the way he liked it. Now he was at the mercy of indifferent cooks and their institutional cooking. There was a limit even to asceticism.

As he walked along the curved corridor he was reminded of the presence of the central chamber that the corridors circumscribed — the huge, domed chamber whose height and majestic elegance made almost trivial the frenetic and partisan proceedings below. But his insight did not succeed, except momentarily, in detaching his mind from this morning’s events and the bitterness that they had aroused in him, nor did it make him regret in the least what he had been planning and preparing a few minutes ago.

Though it had been less than five minutes since he had sent off the peon to fetch his Parliamentary Secretary, Mahesh Kapoor was waiting in the Legal Remembrancer’s Office with great impatience. He was alone, as he had sent the regular occupants of the office scurrying about to get various papers and law-books.

‘Ah, Huzoor has brought his presence to the Secretariat at last!’ he said when he saw Abdus Salaam.

Abdus Salaam did a respectful — or was it ironical? — adaab, and asked what he could do.

‘I’ll come to that in a moment. The question is what you’ve done already.’

‘Already?’ Abdus Salaam was nonplussed.

‘This morning. On the floor of the House. Making a kabab out of our honourable Home Minister.’

‘I only asked—’

‘I know what you only asked, Salaam,’ said his Minister with a smile. ‘I’m asking you why you asked it.’

‘I was wondering why the police—’

‘My good fool,’ said Mahesh Kapoor fondly, ‘don’t you realize that Lakshmi Narayan Agarwal thinks I put you up to it?’

‘You?’

‘Yes, me!’ Mahesh Kapoor was in good humour, thinking of this morning’s proceedings and his rival’s extreme discomfiture. ‘It’s exactly the kind of thing he would do — so he imagines the same of me. Tell me’—he went on—‘did he go to the canteen for lunch?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And was the Chief Minister there? What did he have to say?’

‘No, Sharma Sahib was not there.’

The image of S.S. Sharma eating lunch seated traditionally on the floor at home, his upper body bare except for his sacred thread, passed before Mahesh Kapoor’s eyes.

‘No, I suppose not,’ he said with some regret. ‘So, how did he appear?’

‘You mean Agarwal Sahib? Quite well, I think. Quite composed.’

‘Uff! You are a useless informant,’ said Mahesh Kapoor impatiently. ‘Anyway, I’ve been thinking a little about this. You had better mind what you say or you’ll make things difficult for both Agarwal and myself. At least restrain yourself until the Zamindari Bill has passed. Everyone needs everyone’s cooperation on that.’

‘All right, Minister Sahib.’

‘Speaking of which, why have these people not returned yet?’ asked Mahesh Kapoor, looking around the Legal Remembrancer’s Office. ‘I sent them out an hour ago.’ This was not quite true. ‘Everyone is always late and no one values time in this country. That’s our main problem. . Yes, what is it? Come in, come in,’ he continued, hearing a light knock at the door.

It was a peon with his lunch, which he usually ate quite late.

Opening his tiffin-carrier, Mahesh Kapoor spared half a moment’s thought for his wife, who, despite her own ailments, took such pains on his behalf. April in Brahmpur was almost unbearable for her because of her allergy to neem blossoms, and the problem had become increasingly acute over the years. Sometimes, when the neem trees were in flower, she was reduced to a breathlessness that superficially resembled Pran’s asthma.

She was also very upset these days by her younger son’s affair with Saeeda Bai. So far, Mahesh Kapoor himself had not taken the matter as seriously as he would have had he realized the extent of Maan’s infatuation. He was far too busy with matters that affected the lives of millions to have much time to go into the more irksome regions of his own family life. Maan would have to be brought to heel sooner or later, he thought, but for the moment he had other work to attend to.

‘Have some of this: I suppose I’ve dragged you away from your lunch,’ said Mahesh Kapoor to his Parliamentary Secretary.

‘No, thank you, Minister Sahib, I’d finished when you sent for me. So do you think that everything is going well with the bill?’